To Know Me . . . Is to Beep Me . . .

THANK GOD it was just a satellite on the fritz. When I didn't get beeped for several hours, I assumed I had died, so I spent the day wandering the streets, looking for a place to turn myself in so they'd go easier on me.

Scientists now believe they can get the Galaxy IV satellite working by sending up another satellite with a robot arm to give Galaxy IV a good whack.

Remember when you could do that with your TV, give it a hearty blow with an open palm, or a good shake, and jar the tubes back into place, restoring the picture?

Now that type of action is considered appliance abuse. You can't even curse your microwave if it burns your popcorn.

I threatened my laptop when it wouldn't pound out a column and was sentenced to community service, policing up junk e-mail.

On the very day that balky satellite sent our world spinning into a beeperless void, Robin Burton noticed, the Naval Academy announced it was ceasing forever its course on celestial navigation.

Attention, all hands. This is your captain speaking. Does anyone on board know which one is the North Star?

Maybe Galaxy IV went on strike, demanding a better name. What proud satellite wants to sound like a multiplex mall cinema?

Now playing at the Galaxy IV: "Invasion of the Beeper Reapers," "Sorry, Wrong Beeper," "Beep Impact," "Lost in Space," and the X-rated classic "Deeper Beeper."

It's not yet an official threat, but if it becomes one, you heard it here first (as usual):

A citywide 24-hour taxi strike.

"You get to the point where you have nothing to lose," says crabbie cabbie Keith Raskin, "and that's the feeling among the drivers I talk to."

Raskin says his fellow hacks are hacked off and might not take it much longer. If it comes, a one-day cab-out would be the opening ante by the united-in-desperation drivers.

Don't worry. If they all quit, there will always be more drivers to fill the void. The only question is: Will the new guys know which end of the cab to point down the road?

In Palo Alto you don't say, "I'll meet you for a drink at Spago," because Spago might not let you in.

Too many drop-bys have been turned away during the week, when the bar is booked to private parties. Seems to happen at least once a week.

Is this any way to run a pizza joint?

Several nominations, in the dumb ad slogan competition, for Carl's Jr.: "If it doesn't get all over the place, it doesn't belong in your face."

David Rubin cites the commercial where the young office hunks (voyeurs?) are using binoculars to check out an eating-challenged babe slurping a burger.

Says David, "The boys and I can't wait to get our hands on one of those sloppy burgers. Who cares if it tastes like an old shoe?"